


maybe the end is near

by moodmaker



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - High School, End of the World, M/M, Road Trips, Underage Drinking (Briefly)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodmaker/pseuds/moodmaker
Summary: “Okay,” Mark rolls his eyes, “what am I thinking of now?”“How romantic this is,” Donghyuck answers immediately, coy grin twinkling up at Mark from the corner of his eye. “How we’re eloping together Bonnie and Clyde style and how you haven’t been able to get me out of your fucking mind since you first saw me yesterday, and—”“Rule two,” Mark cuts in, when he can’t stand to hear anything else, “no swearing.”(Or: Mark takes a road trip to the end of the world. Somewhere along the way, he falls in love.)





	maybe the end is near

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from american teen by khalid

**14.**

Mark never thought he’d have anything in common with a T. rex aside from an uncanny ability to detect meat within a 10-foot radius and being absolutely useless at push-ups in P.E. class, but a CNN report opened accidentally while scrolling through Twitter tells him otherwise: in approximately two weeks, Mark will cease to exist.

 _Asteroid_ , is the buzzword trending online, before NASA links an article detailing the difference and _#Meteor_ is created instead. No one wants to be wrong, even in the face of impending doom.

“We need to stock up while we still can,” Mark’s mom is saying when he gets home that day. “Walmart’s probably all emptied out by now, but maybe we can snag some ramen from the corner store. Do you want to come with?”

Mark thinks back to summer in Korea, the sun a syrupy glaze on his back as he watched his mom haggle prices until she’d killed any profit she could (for the seller, that is. His mom profited every time). He imagines the corner store won’t be any different, except this time she’ll be armed with more effective weapons than simply feigning disinterest and walking away. 

“I’ll pass,” he shrugs, and continues up the stairs to his room, where a brand new SAT prep book awaits him. He cracks it open and starts filling it out. He’ll never get a chance to take the actual thing, but maybe there’s something to be said about going through the motions. 

 

 

**13.**

Mark goes to the Astronomy Club meeting after school the next day. Call him naive, but he just wants answers. Even from people who got lost on their way to Twitter.

“Why do you think scientists only found out about the meteor now?” he ventures hesitantly, when the newest debate over whether or not Ophiuchus could be rightfully included in the zodiac had died down.

A girl that Mark had seen in his English classes flipped her hair over her shoulders. “Because technology is dumb.”

“That’s such a Scorpio thing to say,” another guy sniggers from behind his phone, where Co-Star is clearly open.

The girl’s eyes flash. “I’m not a Scorpio.”

“That’s _such_ a Scorpio thing to say.”

Mark decides he’s had enough.

 

 

**13.**

He’s about to head home on the bus before he remembers—right. No school bus driver is willing to spend their last two weeks driving kids around.

He crouches strategically next to the edge of the lot, where the shadow falls heaviest and helps him imagine a breeze whiffling through his bangs. From what he can see, the lot is packed—but not with people. Yellow buses stretch on for miles, almost a corn maze, sounding like clanging tin cans in the wind. He’s never seen the lot so full before—usually sports have monopolized it by now. It’s a humbling sight.

He’s debating whether or not to crawl under one of the buses as he waits for his mom to come get him when he hears it. A clang, but off-key. Someone’s there.

“Hello?” 

“Stupid fucking door—jesus christ, I do _not_ have time for this.”

The language propels him faster (Mark is a church kid through and through) until he’s rounding a corner and stumbling across a boy, floppy-haired and grumbling, kicking angrily at a set of folding doors on a bus.

In his stupor, the boy hasn’t noticed him. Mark frowns. “What are you doing?”

“Holy _shit_ ,” the boy yells, scrambling back until he’s pressed up against the bus doors. “What the fuck was that for?”

Now that he’s flipped himself around, Mark sees long legs, chalked hair, restless hands. His mind scrambles for a name and comes up empty. This kid must go somewhere else, because Mark would definitely remember a name if they went to the same school.

“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?” The boy pants, breaths escaping him in heavy gasps. Mark notices a toolbox propped up against the bus. So he came prepared.

“What are you doing?” Mark repeats.

The boy spins back around, but not before flashing Mark a put-out look. “I’m rrrrreeally trying to get to school on time.”

“It’s four. Classes are done for the day.”

“No _shit_ Sherlock.” Mark feels his cheeks burn. “What does it look like? I’m trying to steal it.”

And yeah, that would explain the toolbox and the ruddy cheeks from trying to shove the doors open when the crowbar had failed. 

“Why would you do that?” He finally asks.

The boy lets out a laugh, a little acerbic but still pleasant, if heard in small doses. “That’s none of your business.”

A horn beeps in the background. Mark’s ride is here.

“Well, good luck,” he says, and the boy waves him off without even turning back to look.

 

 

**12.**

The night before, Mark had put out a poll on Facebook and asked whether or not people were still going to school, and if so, could they please spot him some lunch money?

He checks now—still no response.

“We’re wasting gas on this,” his mom chides, eyes meeting his in the mirror. “There’s no point in going to school now.”

Mark shuts the door without answering.

 

 

**12.**

As it turns out, he really shouldn’t have bothered. No one shows up today. Mark takes out his homework anyway and puts it in the collection bin, but that’s all he can really do without a teacher there. He wanders around, poking his head down hallways he’s only been through when he was a freshman, clearing out his gym locker, climbing up to the roof. 

It’s when he’s on his way to the cafeteria that he bumps into someone, and screams.

“Mr. Johnson?”

The man in question—his principal—screams back. “What are you doing here?”

“…Going to school.”

“Well,” the man grunts, raises an eyebrow. “That’s unusual.”

Mark feels his stomach drop down to his very core. He _knows_ there’s no point in going anymore, but he didn’t know what else to do. Mark’s been following routine too long to break it now. He’s about to make a hasty retreat and maybe go cry in the third floor bathroom before heading home when he notices that his principal is holding something.

“Is that a generator?”

“Yes,” the man says, tone clipped, unconsciously shifting it closer to himself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to get going.”

Mark bids him farewell before he realizes. “Are you… stealing it?”

The man sighs and turns back around, having already made it halfway down the hallway. “Look kid,” he squints, “what’s your name?”

“Mark.”

“Well Mark, unlike you, most of us have better things to do than go to school when the world is _ending_ ,” the man spits, words sharp and pointed. Mark feels himself physically flinch. “There’s no use leaving the damn thing here,” he gestures at the generator, “when it could be at my home, warming me up before I die. So yes, I’m _stealing_ it.”

With that, the man spins back around and keeps walking, Mark staring after him until the hallway is empty.

He’s going home.

 

 

**12.**

There’s a point to be made, somewhere there, about how teachers should model ideal behavior for their students, and it’s probably even more plausible when the teacher in question is the _principal_. Maybe that’s why when Mark walks out the front door and sees the same boy from yesterday struggling with the same set of folding doors on the same bus as before, he walks over and picks up the crowbar. The boy stares back at him, blinking slowly, before his mouth stretches into a smile.

“Gonna actually do something today?”

“Yeah,” Mark grins, hefts the crowbar in his hand. “I’m gonna steal a bus.”

The boy throws his head back in a laugh. Mark stares, transfixed, at the curve of his Adam’s apple. “That’s the spirit.”

Together, they pry the doors open.

 

 

**12.**

“Let’s set some ground rules,” Mark yells loudly, trying to make himself heard over the wind. The boy hums noncommitedly from his spot on the stairs, dangling his feet down as he looks out the window—er, doors. How he got the keys, Mark doesn’t want to know. He’s just thankful that the boy didn’t put up much of a fight when Mark said he’d drive.

“Oh, so you’re a rules kind of guy, huh?” The boy says around a smirk.

“Rule one,” Mark says, ignoring the way his cheeks flush red, “could you give me your name?”

“Now why would I do that?”

“I’ll tell you mine,” Mark wheedles. It’s the only bargaining chip he’s got.

“Alright, Mark Lee,” the boy drawls, and Mark almost runs a light in his shock. 

“How…?”

The boy swings his legs, humming. “I’m telepathic.”

“Okay,” Mark rolls his eyes, “then what am I thinking of now?”

“How romantic this is,” the boy answers immediately, coy grin twinkling up at Mark from out the corner of his eye. “How we’re eloping together Bonnie and Clyde style and how you haven’t been able to get me out of your fucking mind since you first saw me yesterday, and—”

“Rule two,” Mark cuts in, when he can’t stand to hear anything else, “no swearing.”

 

 

**11.**

The next day Mark’s still driving, the boy having complained about how sleeping on the bus seats had been bad for his back and Mark didn’t want to die in a car crash, did he?

“Don’t say that word,” Mark winces.

“What, die?” The boy gets a gleam in his eyes. “Die, die, die, die, die, die, die—”

Mark scowls. “What are you, six?”

Thirty minutes later finds them in a Home Depot parking lot, having gotten there courtesy of directions the boy had scrawled down into a notebook earlier.

(“Why would you waste time doing that when you could just use Google Maps?”

“We do this road trip, we do it _right_.”)

The doors are locked, but the boy simply lifts the crowbar, smashes it down, and they’re in. Mark winces at the sound of the security alarm going off, stepping over the glass and following the boy into the store. 

“First things first, we need a mattress.” The boy announces. “I am _not_ sleeping on those seats again.”

Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. Mattresses are _expensive_. “I, uh, didn’t bring any cash with me.”

The look the boy shoots him is so pitiful that Mark shuts up immediately. “Do you really think money fucking means anything now?”

“Language,” Mark mutters.

They manage to find a decently-sized mattress, drag it out the door, and prop it up next to the bus. Mark collapses against it immediately, panting hard. Apart from the heaving gasps of his breath and the occasional car going by, there’s no sound around them for miles.

“Are you gonna help, or what?” The boy yells, and Mark pops up to see that he’s busy tearing out the seats from the emergency door in the back. He huffs and goes to join. 

“Where do they go?” Mark groans, having tried to lift one of the seats up by himself.

The boy points to the back of the building. “I’m sure there’s a dumpster somewhere there.”

Mark opens his mouth, ready to ask about potentially selling the seats for scrap metal instead of just throwing them away, before he remembers the boy’s words from the store and he snaps his mouth shut.

 

 

**10.**

Soon enough, Mark hears a knock on the doors and raises the crowbar reflexively. Even though they’ve set up camp for the night on an endless expanse of flat, flat dirt, he can’t help but be wary.

“Whoa,” the boy yells, banging harder. “It’s just me.”

Mark relaxes and reaches over to hit the button. The doors open. “What do you want?”

“I can’t find any kindling,” the boy explains. “So I’m gonna burn my textbooks. Can I burn yours too?”

“How do you know I brought textbooks?” Mark frowns, shifting his backpack behind him protectively.

The boy snorts. “I saw them when I riffled through your bag the first day. How else do you think I know your name?”

“Oh.” 

“Here,” the boy grins, hands over his own textbook. “Now you can return the favor.”

Mark glances down at a copy of _Precalculus and Data/Statistics: Numerical, Graphical, and Algebraic, Fifth Edition_. It’s considerably glossier than all of his own textbooks, and Mark whistles. “Your school actually buys new textbooks for you guys?”

The boy hums. “Something like that.”

Mark runs his hands down the spine and flips the cover open. Right there— _Donghyuck Lee_ , it reads, in surprisingly neat print.

He tips the book down to look at Donghyuck, who stands there, smiling at him somewhat bashfully.

“Donghyuck?”

“Yeah?”

Mark stands up and reaches for his own bag, pulling out a multitude of SAT books. He turns to grin at Donghyuck. “Let’s burn this shit.”

 

 

**10.**

“We need to break this thing in,” Donghyuck announces later that night, eyes searching the bus furtively. The fire blazes on happily behind him, unaware. “You got any champagne?”

“I’m seventeen,” Mark snorts, “does it _look_ like I carry champagne with me?”

Donghyuck doesn’t deem that worthy of an answer and huffs instead. He climbs on top of the engine, legs scrambling over the hood.

“Uh,” Mark swallows, watching Donghyuck’s legs flail wildly as he struggles upward. “What are you doing?”

“Christening it,” Donghyuck spits, “fuck, this hurts.”

“Language,” Mark reminds him.

Donghyuck turns to shoot him a dirty look. “You don’t get to say that, you broke your own rule.”

“When did I…?” Oh. Right. Back with the fire. Well, can you blame him? He’d been dying to burn his SAT books.

By the time Mark turns back to look at Donghyuck, he’s already jumped off the bus. Behind him, Mark sees that he’s scratched off a couple of letters at the top. __C_OOL BUS_ , it reads now.

Donghyuck grins, wolfish in the firelight. “Now it’s really ours.”

 

 

**9.**

“I don’t get it,” Donghyuck frowns, still tugging at Mark’s arm uselessly. “You had no qualms about stealing the mattress with me back at Home Depot. Why are you getting cold feet now?”

Mark staunchly stays in the driver’s seat. “That was different. I was just… helping you.”

“Okay,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes, “so help me now.”

“Noooo,” Mark whines, a little petulantly.

They were bound to run out of food at some point, Mark knew. He should’ve seen it coming, considering they had each gobbled up their fair share of sausages, roasting them over the fires Donghyuck built during nights. But it hadn’t really occurred to him that they’d have to resort to _crime_ to feed themselves now.

“No one’s even here, how is this any different from before?” Donghyuck throws his hands up in exasperation.

“That _was_ different,” Mark insists stubbornly. “Back then, I was still riding on the high of being a successful bus hijacker. Now, I’ve recovered some basic morality.”

“Morals aren’t going to feed you.”

Mark casts a glance at the proposed crime spot in question—a convenience store—and huffs, turning away. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Suit yourself,” Donghyuck shrugs.

 

 

**9.**

Mark caves two hours later and eats the stolen contraband anyway.

 

 

**8.**

What they don’t tell you about road trips is that sometimes, things get boring. It’s Donghyuck’s turn to drive now and Mark is taking full advantage of it by sprawling himself over the mattress and scrolling on his phone. There’s not much he can do on it, since cell service is completely shut down now and the battery is almost dead, but it keeps his hands busy, at least. Makes him think of days where scrolling on his phone was all he used to do. Lets him pretend that he’s still in bed, at home, had gotten lucky and woken up before his alarm went off and was killing time on Instagram before inevitably getting called down for breakfast by his mom.

Now, the days roll on endlessly, nothing to keep track of time except their dying phones and the rise and fall of the sun in the sky. All around them is rust-colored dirt for miles, stretching on and on and on, broken up only by the strip of asphalt that their bus runs along. Each time they pass a car, they wave. They run out of distractions way too easily.

“Donghyuck,” Mark starts cautiously, “where are we going? What are you running from?”

“Not running from something,” Donghyuck corrects, nonchalant save for the quiver of his hands as they drum nervously on the wheel, “running _to_ something.”

 _Why?_ Mark wants to ask, before he changes his mind. “To what?”

“That was your mom the other day, right? The woman who picked you up at the bus lot?”

“Yeah,” Mark answers slowly, not sure where this change of subject is going.

Donghyuck meets his eyes in the front mirror, open and honest. “How did you leave her so easily?”

“Well,” Mark shifts uncomfortably. “I guess I wasn’t really thinking.”

“Do you regret it?”

There is a long, silent pause as Mark thinks of his mom. She’d wanted him to be born in Korea, but Mark had come out two months early during a business trip in Canada and they’d moved to California years afterward due to a job transfer. He only goes to Korea during summers, short, two week stints that leave him aching with mosquito bites and his mom with a spark of life in her eyes. In California, she’d fizzle out so quickly that sometimes, he wouldn’t be able to recognize her. He still doesn’t understand why.

“I don’t know,” Mark finally answers. “I really don’t know.”

 

 

**8.**

“I need to get to my mom,” Donghyuck slurs, halfway between awake and asleep. Nighttime now falls quietly, no longer sneaking up on them like before. This is the farthest out from the city Mark’s ever been, he thinks. There are so many noises around him—crickets and birds and stars and grass. It’s nice to know that they aren’t the only ones out here. That they’re not alone.

Mark whispers. “Where is she?”

“Dead,” comes the reply. “Wanna die near her.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark says, but it goes unheard in the night. Donghyuck’s already asleep.

Funny how both of them are running parallel lines in opposite directions.

 

 

**7.**

“There’s something I wanna do,” Donghyuck says the next day. It’s Mark’s turn to drive now.

“Yeah?”

A smirk curls at Donghyuck’s upper lip. “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”

 

 

**7.**

They don’t actually get tattoos, obviously. That would be dangerous, considering neither of them have professional training or experience and aren’t prepared for any of the aftercare that’s involved and Mark has always been afraid of needles anyway, there is no way he would ever even consider—

They get tattoos.

“Are you serious?” Mark whisper-shouts, voice getting higher out of panic. 

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “Relaaax. I’ve done this before!”

They’re in a tattoo parlor now, directions for which had come out of the same battered notebook that Donghyuck’s been carrying around with him since day one. When Mark had suggested they burn it, Donghyuck had honest-to-god _hissed_ at him. The shop’s been left in pristine condition, save for a faint layer of dust, but Donghyuck remedies that easily. 

“I’m gonna get a sun done,” Donghyuck grins, “and it’s clear that you’ve never thought about this before, so why don’t I just give you a moon?”

“I don’t think—” Mark starts, before sighing and holding out his arm. There are so many ways this could go wrong. “Fine.”

Donghyuck hums happily and gets to work. “I’m gonna do it near your wrist, okay?”

The first touch of needle to skin makes both of them jump—Mark, out of pain, Donghyuck, out of giddiness. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He grimaces. He refuses to cry in front of Donghyuck.

“Oh yeah,” Donghyuck grins, flashes him a thumbs up. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

_Pretty?_

 

 

**7.**

They’re back in the bus now, tattoos having (surprisingly) been a success. It stings a little to drive, but Mark doesn’t mind. The tattoo is barely the size of a quarter anyway.

“Where’d you learn how to do tattoos?” He asks, holding his wrist up when they’re stopped at a red light (They have a _loooot_ of arguments about whether or not they should stop for lights. In the end, Mark wins—he still has to uphold some of his morals, okay?).

“Oh I didn’t,” Donghyuck chirps, “just gave myself a stick and poke once.”

The tires squeal to a halt. “You _what_?”

“Everything turned out fine, oh my god.” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

Mark splutters, feeling like the ground’s been pulled out from under his feet. “I’m _concerned!_ ”

“Well, you shouldn’t be.”

“I’m going to die from infection,” Mark groans, hitting his head against the wheel. The horn toots sadly in response. “Donghyuck, that’s such a lame way to go.”

Silence. Mark looks up, only to find Donghyuck smiling down at him.

“Now you’re the one joking about death, huh?”

“What?” Mark frowns, scratching his head as he frantically reels their conversation back. “Oh that.” Mark grins, sheepish. “Yeah, I guess.”

Donghyuck hums.

 

 

**6.**

“Still no?”

Donghyuck glances up at him from where he’s standing just beyond the doors of the bus, eyes sparkling. Mark looks past him to the convenience store and sinks deeper into his seat.

“Still no.”

Donghyuck shakes his head mockingly, smile tugging at his lips as he turns away. “Those goddamn morals.”

“Language!” Mark shouts after him.

Donghyuck flips him the bird in response.

 

 

**5.**

Maybe it’s because the meteor is closer, but the stars seem brighter now. 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Mark scoffs when Donghyuck tells him this. “The meteor would be even brighter than the stars, so then there’d be light pollution, and the stars would actually be dimmer—”

“I love it when you talk sexy,” Donghyuck purrs.

They’ve dragged the mattress out the back door tonight. It’s been so nice recently that Mark has finally given in to Donghyuck’s pleading, willing to overlook the potential risk of rain. 

And it’s worth it, he thinks. Donghyuck has absolutely no understanding of basic science, but the stars really _are_ brighter tonight. They spread out in front of them like a blanket, all twinkling and coy. The sky cocoons them tightly, wind whistling a lullaby as they drift off.

“Are you scared?” Donghyuck murmurs, propped up against Mark’s shoulder. He’s come to realize that Donghyuck’s more forthcoming at night.

“Of what?”

“Death. Dying. Aren’t we too young?”

Mark swallows tightly, eyes shut against the stars. They twinkle ominously now, reminding Mark that he’ll be one of them soon.

“Yeah,” he breathes, slow. “Yeah, we are.”

 

 

**4.**

They’re getting there, Donghyuck tells him, when Mark asks how long they have to keep driving for. Donghyuck’s childhood home is very far upstate, Mark’s gathered.

“Why were you down in my city then?” Mark frowns.

Donghyuck just hums, smacks on his gum. “Ooh look, there are people here!”

Mark follows Donghyuck’s finger to the window, where they come across an RV tilting dangerously on the side of a road. Mark makes out three figures, all huddled around a fireplace for warmth. One of them beams, eyes crinkling into crescents and waves a hand at them.

“Look, he’s asking us to join them!”

“I don’t know if they’re safe,” Mark says, spinning around to face Donghyuck, except— “Donghyuck?”

“Come on!”

Donghyuck waves eagerly up at him from in front of the bus, an arm already slung around Crescent Eyes.

Mark sighs and makes his way down.

 

 

**4.**

Their name is DREAM, and they’re a band.

“It’s always been our dream to travel on the road, touring.” One of them says—Renjun, their lead singer, and de facto leader. (Jaemin might be the official one, but Mark’s not blind.)

“Haha, _dream_ , get it?”

Renjun rolls his eyes and reaches over to flick at the other guy’s forehead. “Shut up, Jaemin.”

“So this is kind of perfect,” Jeno—Crescent Eyes—finishes.

“Did you bring your instruments?” Donghyuck says, leaning forward. “I wanna hear you guys in action.”

“Chenle! Jisung!” Renjun hollers at the RV, “get off your damn phones and come play with us.”

Mark blinks, and suddenly two more are emerging from the trailer, faces round-cheeked and beaming. His heart twists a little at the sight. They can’t be any older than fifteen.

The five of them launch into a rendition of one of their songs—We Go Up, he’s been told—and Donghyuck curls up next to him, watching the five of them over the edges of the dying fire.

It’s moments like this, Mark thinks, that make leaving worth it. Donghyuck, drowsy and compliant, pressed formlessly into his side, music flickering over his ears, sunset a halo behind them. They’ve been driving for _so_ long.

“What’d you think?” One of the younger ones—Chenle—asks, jumping up from behind his keyboard. “We were good, right?”

Mark nods, Donghyuck giving an appreciative thumbs up next to him. “You guys were great,” he says. “Honest.”

“Well since you’ve been such a nice audience,” Jeno smiles, procuring a can of beer from behind his back, “how about a drink?”

“I’ll pass,” Mark says, at the same time that Donghyuck jumps forward and shouts, “Hell yeah!”

Renjun glances at him with an eyebrow raised. “I need to drive tomorrow,” Mark explains, and Renjun smirks a little as he glances at Donghyuck next. Mark flushes red in response.

“You and your damn morals,” Donghyuck huffs, shaking his head.

 

 

**3.**

They’re back on the road again soon after that, Mark driving, Donghyuck slumped next to him.

Donghyuck had been delightfully hungover this morning, even when they’d gone over to say their thank yous and goodbyes to the five of them.

“Good luck,” Renjun had whispered in his ear, tightening his hug ever so slightly before letting Mark go.

Donghyuck stayed pressed into his side, mumbling all the while. If Mark thought Donghyuck was talkative before, well. That can’t compare to now.

“Gonna see mom again,” Donghyuck groans, Mark shifting his shoulder so that he can signal his turn.

Mark decides to humor him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck hums, smacks his lips. “Gonna see the ocean, the gardens. Gonna die pretty.”

They drive on.

 

 

**2.**

Mark wouldn’t say it in front of Donghyuck, but he’s been feeling the slow press of time, the grains of sand falling around him, the endless struggle to flip the hourglass over. Even though there’s no way to really keep track of time anymore, Mark’s been scratching tally marks into the side of the bus. One mark for each day gone by. And he definitely wouldn’t admit it to Donghyuck, but Mark wants to do this one thing for him, wants to get him to his mom before it’s too late.

So he’s endlessly relieved when Donghyuck shakes himself out of his slumber and mutters, eyes half-open, “we’re here.”

Donghyuck’s childhood home is right by the ocean, and it’s not so much of a house as it is a manor.

“I had no idea you were so rich,” Mark marvels, eyes wide as he drinks everything in.

Donghyuck rolls his eyes, but Mark can tell that it’s more fond than exasperated. “Well maybe you’re used to having no room to piss in the city,” Donghyuck grins, brandishing a hand outward. “But here in the countryside, things are different.”

And they are indeed—Mark has never seen this much color before. The gardens that Donghyuck had mentioned sprawl in all directions outward from the house—er, manor. A little overrun, a little overgrown (their gardener had quit ages ago, Donghyuck said), but still so, so green. The ocean hums a little jingle in the background and even the seagulls play nice for now.

“I know that this is like a whole new world for you,” Donghyuck smirks, voice low in his ear, “but we don’t have all day.”

Mark shudders and pushes Donghyuck away, who cackles sharply.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

 

 

**2.**

Even if Donghyuck’s childhood home is more manor than house, even if the grounds are sprawling and the ocean is calling and the birds are chirping, there’s only so much sightseeing they can do before they inevitably come to—

“My mom,” Donghyuck says quietly, leading Mark over to a grave nestled snugly in the groove of a tree root, wilting flowers drooping on top. Mark doesn’t say anything. He watches Donghyuck instead, who curls himself up into a ball and starts talking, voice low and quiet. 

Mark goes to gather flowers from the garden. When he returns Donghyuck doesn’t say a word, just reaches over for the flowers and lays them on top.

 

 

**2.**

Their last night on Earth they’re wedged into Donghyuck’s childhood bed, a twin mattress so small that their bodies curl over each other just to make it work. Neither of them are all that willing to go to sleep.

“My mom died when I was really little,” Donghyuck says, the words whispered into the crook of Mark’s arm. “I got sent to boarding school after that.”

Even though it’s night, there’s light bleeding through the windows. The meteor is so close now that it hangs over the sky at all times, the worst kind of omen. Mark traces one beam of light through the crack of the doorframe, past the willowy halo of Donghyuck’s hair, right to the pupil of his eye. It sucks the color right out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says, staring straight up at the ceiling, and then he can’t stop. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Donghyuck tangles their hands together. There’s so much more he wants to say, so much he wants to laugh and dance and sing about. He wants to tell Donghyuck that his childhood dream was to become a famous rapper, that he loves the swings because it’s the closest thing to flying he can get, that he was studying so hard to go to Stanford and then maybe the Supreme Court, that his first kiss was lost to Spin the Bottle, that his real name is Minhyung, that sometimes he misses Canada so much it feels like a long-lost bruise, that his favorite color is blue, that he can’t eat ketchup, that he loves Donghyuck, so much—

 

 

**2.**

All of these things will take a lifetime to tell. Too bad they only have a day.

 

 

**1.**

Everything that had been humming yesterday—the ocean, the birds, the gardens—is silent today. Mark stands side by side with Donghyuck in the ocean, toes digging deeper into the sand in an attempt to ground himself. The meteor arcs over their head and the sky flashes in response, blue and green and pink and orange and purple. All of the colors in Donghyuck’s hair.

Mark reaches out for him. “I love you,” he rasps, voice hoarse from disuse.

“I know,” Donghyuck says softly. 

He leans in, and Mark surges forward to meet him halfway.

 

 

**0.**

_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_Not with a bang but with a whimper._

— _The Hollow Men,_ T.S. Eliot

**Author's Note:**

>  **PLEASE READ: IMPORTANT**  
>  after some thought + consultation i have decided NOT to tag this as major character death, mainly because it is more of an implication/suggestion than an actual thing that happens. if you think i should tag it as such, let me know in the comments below and i will do so!
> 
> many thanks to d who, in her own words, "championed this piece like hell b4 it existed" and will "LITERALLY DIE FOR IT NOW"  
> ily lots and lots and lots <333 
> 
> come find me here! ⟶ [twitter](https://twitter.com/mythsick) / [cc](https://curiouscat.me/elsewhere)


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